


Tolle Rota

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Epilepsy, Gen, Kidnapping, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock understands that he can't drive, but he really doesn't have any other choice when he and John are kidnapped (again) and left in the middle of nowhere. And John, being unconscious, is in no state to drive. And of course, Gladstone is a dog. Dogs can't drive. (Don't be ridiculous.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It's not fair,” Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

John took a deep breath before tackling that problem. “No, Sherlock, life isn't fair. Surely you've figured that out by now though.”

Sherlock only sighed dramatically at him, still obviously grumpy. “Still.”

“Sherlock, you know why you can't drive. And you've never wanted to before, so why now?”

Sherlock scowled. “Because Mycroft said I couldn't.”

John gaped at him. “Seriously? You only want to drive to spite your brother?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You're really finding it that hard to believe?”

“No,” John admitted. “But still. You know why you can't drive. Even with Gladstone, the seizures are too much of a risk. Besides, since when do we do any of our own driving?”

John gestured to the cab they were sitting in.

“It's the principle of it,” Sherlock grumbled.

 

John was still shaking his head moments later when Sherlock billowed out of the cab and into 221 Baker Street, Gladstone trailing on his heels, leaving John to pay the bill.

“Thanks mate,” the cabbie said as John handed him the cash. He'd driven them before. There were only so many cabbies who were still willing to pick up Sherlock and his dog.

John nodded and followed Sherlock upstairs. By the time John reached the top, Sherlock had thrown himself on the couch (dramatically, no doubt) and was sulking.

“What's this about?” John asked, holding his hands out, gesturing at the scene in front of him.

Gladstone answered for him, whining and pawing at Sherlock's hand that was hanging off the side.

“Right,” John declared. “To bed with you.”

Sherlock gave John a death glare, but still got up, making a short stop in the bathroom before slamming his door behind him and Gladstone, safely tucked away.

John sighed. Sherlock hadn't had a seizure for eight days, so one was sure to pop up sooner or later, but with every day that passed, John knew that Sherlock had hope that maybe it wouldn't be that day. And that maybe, he could just keep counting until he forgot what number he was at. John dreamed of those days.

 

John had occupied himself with typing up the details of the most recent case, and had published it. Sherlock still hadn't emerged from his room after half an hour, but he'd likely fallen asleep. Gladstone hadn't been whining at the door to get out, so John wasn't concerned.

He put the kettle on and tried to find a clean mug, something that was often quite a challenge, despite repeatedly telling Sherlock that mugs were not to be used as lab equipment. He'd had to settle for washing one when he heard the door to their flat open.

“D'you want some tea Mrs Hudson?” he called, not bothering to look over his shoulder. On Tuesdays Mrs Hudson went over to Mrs Turner's for their weekly gossip, and would often come back to have tea with John, sharing all the ridiculous things she'd heard.

But she didn't respond, and when John turned around to ask her again, he was rewarded with a quick blow to the head.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was awoken by John calling out to Mrs Hudson.

 _Tuesday. Gossip day,_ his brain reminded him. A brain that wasn't too happy to be woken up. John should know better.

But when Mrs Hudson didn't respond, and the only noise that greeted Sherlock was a thump, and then the sound of a body collapsing to the ground, his brain quickly forgot its irritation and skipped right over to concern and panic.

“John?” he called, practically throwing himself out of bed. It helped that he wasn't under the covers.

But his vision blurred at the edges, and he realized that to avoid passing out, it would help if he threw himself on the ground pre-emptively, rather than collapse there a moment later.

It hurt a bit.

Two sets of footsteps trampled their way towards him. Men, both heavyset, but muscular. Not overly tall if the echos were anything to go by, which they were of course.

Sherlock decided his best course of action was to remain on the floor like he'd passed out. Playing possum as it were.

 

The owners of the footsteps loomed over him.

“Is he dead?” one said finally. “Looks like crap.”

The other made a grunting noise. “I dunno.”

The first one shuffled closer to Sherlock and kicked him gently in the side. Sherlock tried not to stir. He's always been good at playing dead.

“He's still breathing,” the first one noted.

The other one grunted. “Alright. Just throw him in as is. And bring the bloody dog. All we need is for it to make a ridiculous amount of noise cause his owner's gone.”

Sherlock was lifted by a pair of strong arms that were used to physical labour. His neck was in an uncomfortable position, but he didn't dare shift. He smelled of smoke and sweat and something else Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on at the moment, but he'd had a seizure less than an hour ago, so cut him some slack.

 

The other man paused in the kitchen, probably to pick up John, before following the man who was carrying Sherlock down the stairs and into some sort of van. Sherlock couldn't be sure of the type without looking, but judging on the sound of the engine, and the space he was thrown in, it was s relatively big van. The perfect thing for kidnapping.

 

One of the men got in the front and began to drive away, while Sherlock could feel the other staring at him.

“You sure they're gonna stay like this?” he called to his partner.

The man grunted. (Sherlock was quickly growing appalled at his lack of vocabulary. Who were they dealing with here? Chimps?)

“Kick em again. See if they squirm. If they do, drug em.”

Apparently the man thought it was a fantastic idea, because he kicked Sherlock, much more forcefully this time, and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a gasp.

He heard the contact of foot with flesh again, but not with his own. John groaned and stirred, probably trying to get away from the man despite his unconsciousness.

“This one's movin'!” he called.

“So drug him,” the other yelled back.

Sherlock could feel the man moving around him, making noises and shuffling clothing.

He didn't grow concerned until he heard a belt buckle, and despite his best efforts, stiffened slightly. Was this man going to rape John in the back of a moving van?

But there was only a slight moan from John, and Sherlock heard the belt again.

 _Injected him in the leg probably,_ he told himself, forcing a deep breath.

 

The man finished with John, and likely stood over Sherlock examining him.

“He gasped when I kicked him,” he called.

“So?”

“How do I know he's gonna stay like this?”

He sighed. “How should I know?”

The man kicked Sherlock again, and he did his best to not make a sound.

He crouched down, hopefully satisfied, but something must have caught his attention.

“Oh,” he said. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

He felt a tug on his wrist, but not the one with the watch. A watch that was relatively valuable, if that's what the men were looking for. Money, ransom.

But no, it was the other wrist. The one with...

It came to Sherlock suddenly. He was wearing his bracelet, the one that John had gotten specially made for him and tried his damnedest to make sure he actually wore it. The one that identified him as having epilepsy.

“He's got epilepsy,” the man called to the driver, tugging at Sherlock's wrist to read the bracelet before throwing his arm back down. “Maybe he had a... whatever, fit or something before we got there.”

He climbed into the passenger seat, and Sherlock resisted the urge to find something to hold onto as they took a hard left.

“My sister's kid gets fits. He sleeps a lot after them. Can't wake him up for anything.”

The other man hummed.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his epilepsy had worked in his favour.


	3. Chapter 3

He tried to map the turns they took, but between what had happened at the beginning of the journey and trying to keep himself awake, by the time they arrived, they could have been in any number of different places.

But they arrived, and Sherlock was unceremoniously dumped on the ground, John right next to him.

“Checked them for phones, gps or anything?”

“Yup,” the other man confirmed. Sherlock could attest to that if he wanted. The man had groped around in his coat and trouser pockets, finding nothing, because he'd thrown his phone at John before heading into his bedroom to have his seizure.

Gladstone sighed beside them.

“Tie the dog to them,” the one ordered, and shortly after, Sherlock felt a length of rope being tied around his ankle, and could only believe the same was happening to John.

Gladstone growled slightly, but curled up protectively in between her two men. She wasn't going anywhere without them both. It didn't matter if she was tied or not.

 

Sherlock wasn't sure what was going to happen next, if they were going to shoot them, or otherwise kill them, or perhaps leave them there while they called for ransom or something. Sherlock hadn't felt any guns on the man who'd carried him and leaned over him in the van, but they still could have them.

They stood over them for a few more minutes.

“We good to go?” the one asked.

The other hummed. “I dunno. Still don't like the looks of the one.”

The first one thought for a second. “Drop his hand on his face,” he suggested. He was obviously the brains of the operation. “They do that on telly.”

Sherlock's hypothesis had been confirmed.

The man picked up Sherlock's arm and held it over his face, letting it go and watching it bounce off his cheek. He did it again, and then again before he seemed to tire of it. Each time he seemed satisfied. Sherlock had hoped for that response. He'd had a lot more practice with that than he'd care to admit. Another time perhaps.

 

“Yeah, that's good. Come on, let's go. We have to meet Carl.”

They trudged off, and there was the double slam of car doors, and the sound of the van engine retreating into the distance. Sherlock waited an extra moment before peeking through his eyelashes to ensure they were gone. They were.

He and John were lying on the ground in (practically) the middle of nowhere. A dilapidated barn stood off to one side, but it hadn't been used in at least twenty years. There was a forest on one side, and a field on the other, a band of trees in the distance. The road that the men had driven up was dirt, overgrown with weeds.

Things weren't looking good.

 

“John,” Sherlock called, scooping his friend's head into his hands. “John,” he repeated, more loudly.

There was no response, but Sherlock hadn't expected one. Whatever they'd drugged him with was likely to last at least an hour, if not many more.

When he set John's head back down, his hand came away sticky.

Blood.

Sherlock rolled him over and examined the wound on the side of John's head. Blunt force trauma, probably from a baseball bat. Sherlock shook his head. Petty criminals. He could only imagine it had to do with their current case, which was so close to being done that Sherlock could taste it.

And now? Left for dead in the middle of nowhere, John drugged and concussed, Sherlock still recovering from a seizure, and their only asset being a barn and a dog.

What fun.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock left Gladstone keeping watch over John. She wasn't pleased about it, but she didn't have to be. Sherlock figured he'd be close enough to her that she'd still be able to sense if he was about to have a seizure, god forbid.

 

Apparently these men were even stupider than Sherlock had previously thought, if that was indeed possible. Because in the barn was an ancient truck, blue paint peeling off the side with rust everywhere, but still looked in decent enough shape.

And it wasn't even locked.

Sherlock smirked as he slid in the front seat, coughing on the dust that he could see in the streams of light coming through the many cracks in the walls.

And it still had some gas. What luck.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock whispered to himself. “This will do nicely.”

Sherlock hadn't had much experience hot-wiring cars before, but he understood the method behind it, and that was enough for him. Within ten minutes the old motor was not quite purring, but running nonetheless.

 

He didn't bother with opening the barn door, just drove right through it. It crumbled like the delicate wafers Mycroft was so fond of.

He pulled up slowly to the right of John and Gladstone, who barked at him as he came closer, warning him to keep back.

“Shh girl,” he urged, parking the truck and stepping out.

He scratched her ears. “Let's get John in, shall we.”

Sherlock stood over John for a moment before deciding how to move him. It wasn't like he had an awful lot of choices.

He tried lifting John in his arms, but he simply wasn't strong enough. (He blamed the recent seizure rather than an issue with his level of strength.)

“Fat lot of good you are,” he informed Gladstone.

Gladstone cocked her head at him. Sherlock knew exactly what she was saying.

_Oh, you silly man. I don't do lifting. Honestly, look at me. Do I look like I could lift him?_

“You could at least help,” he grumbled, picking up John's shoulders again and sliding him closer.

 

When John was at the foot of the door, still blissfully ignorant in his unconsciousness, Sherlock looked at him.

“I apologize in advance,” he said, before picking John up and heaving him into the truck. He managed to get him on the floor, and from there he took a break, breathing heavily.

“You need to lose some weight,” he informed John.

Gladstone sighed at him. _Don't be ridiculous._

Sherlock scowled at her. “Unless you're helping, you don't get a say.”

Gladstone wagged her tail obediently and hopped in the truck next to John, picking one of his arms up by the sleeve and practically beaming at him.

“Oh, aren't you clever,” he growled.

 

Gladstone continued holding John's sleeve as Sherlock heaved John up into the seat and buckled him in.

“This is a bit ridiculous,” he noted. “You can put his arm down now.”

Sherlock slid into his seat and eyed John. Still unconscious and under the effects of whatever drug he'd been given. At least the bleeding on his head had slowed.

Pity. The truck might get some blood on it.

 

* * *

 

 

It was slow going. Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure where they were, and didn't want to risk heading in the wrong direction. There wasn't that much gas left. As long as he made it to somewhere more populated, he figured he'd be good. So he set off in the direction he deduced would be the best, Gladstone perched on the seat in between him and John, who was still slouched over, held up only by the seat belt.

 

He'd only been driving for ten minutes when Gladstone started signalling.

“I still have ten more,” he told her.

She whined at him, indeed for the next ten minutes, before Sherlock pulled over and parked. He opened the door for Gladstone to hop out before him, intending to lay in the grass rather than flail around in the truck. But Gladstone was barking and the ground was rapidly approaching, and soon Sherlock found himself on the road before anything could be done about it.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock usually approached consciousness slowly after a seizure, but this time was different. He was trapped and tied down, and that prompted a burst of adrenaline, allowing him to think clearly and struggle against his bonds.

“Mr Holmes, stop,” someone pleaded. “We're trying to help you.”

Sherlock could have laughed. Hardly.

“Get off of me,” he snapped. “I'm fine. I don't need this. Stop being ridiculous.” _Paramedics. Ambulance. Saved,_ his mind tried to tell him, but fight or flight instinct took over.

Despite the hands trying to hold him down, he managed to undo the straps that were tying him to the stretcher. He undid the spinal collar and threw it away, disgusted at the memory of wearing it.

He surveyed the scene. He was at the spot where he'd pulled over. The truck was still sitting there, the driver's door open.

“John!” he called, struggling to stand up. He didn't see John.

Gladstone barked behind him. He spun, nearly falling over as he did. Gladstone was sitting next to John, who was on a stretcher being tended to by paramedics.

“He was drugged,” he called more weakly.

He stumbled, and hands led him back to the stretcher.

“I'm fine,” he snapped.

“Sherlock!” a voice bellowed.

He groaned.

“A little bit late Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade smirked at him. “You seemed to do fine on your own. Now lay down. You just had a seizure, and somehow ended up face first in the road. I know you don't want to go to the hospital, but John is going, and this way you get there with him.”

Sherlock scowled, but allowed himself to be strapped back down. He insisted the stretcher be raised to a sitting position, and he only glared at Lestrade as yet another shock blanket was draped over him.

Gladstone appeared at his side, now that she knew John was in good hands, and that Sherlock was content with his care. He loved that she knew to do that, to check on John. It was probably more out of concern for Sherlock, since he would feel it was necessary to rush over to John and see if he was alright. Sherlock didn't care if he passed out or not, as long as he could ensure John was safe.

He may also have been slightly tired.

“Second,” he said suddenly.

“What?” one of the paramedics asked.

“Not you,” Sherlock said, waving him away.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Second? What?”

Sherlock sighed at him.

“Second seizure?” he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. “Must have been the stress of _being kidnapped._ ” He spat the words out, aiming for Lestrade.

“Hey!” he protested. “I just only found out. For some reason, I get alerted whenever an emergency services call is made regarding people of your and John's descriptions.”

He looked upset, and Sherlock couldn't help but laugh.

“Mycroft,” he muttered under his breath and the stretcher was loaded in the ambulance.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing Lestrade as he climbed in after.

Lestrade frowned. “Taking care of you of course. John's still unconscious and I can trust him to behave on his own. You? Nope.”

Gladstone nuzzled the DI's leg affectionately.

“Stop it Lestrade, she's working,” he said bitterly as they began moving.

Lestrade only laughed.

 

The sway of the ambulance as they rolled through the country roads and the soft touch of Gladstone's fur must have lulled Sherlock to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade must have gotten them to sedate him, because Sherlock didn't wake up until there was no sunlight peering in the window of his hospital room.

“Sleeping beauty awakens,” John noted. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

He rolled over to face him, sitting up in his own bed, working away at a bowl of gelatin. Hospital food was so pitiful.

“You hardly get to talk,” he informed him. “You slept through all the excitement. Sorry about any bruises you may have, you're not exactly easy to carry.”

John frowned for a second before shaking his head. “I don't want to know.”

“I do,” Lestrade announced.

“Ah, yes Lestrade. I didn't see you lurking there,” Sherlock smirked.

“I want to know what you were doing in the middle of nowhere, John belted into an ancient truck and you lying on the road next to it. You know you nearly got run over, right? That's who called the paramedics, some poor bloke who almost flattened the world's only consulting detective lying smack dab in the middle of the road. Bet Gladstone didn't like that.”

Sherlock made a non committal noise.

“A truck? Sherlock, were you driving?” John demanded.

Sherlock only shrugged. “It was necessary. You were unconscious, and could have been for who knows how much longer, bleeding from a head wound of unknown origin, and besides, I pulled over before I had the seizure. It was fine.”

John gaped. Apparently he hadn't know about the seizure. “Seizure? Sherlock!” _Damn._

“Oh, did I say seizure? I meant-”

“Shut it,” John ordered.

“Necessary,” Sherlock muttered.

Gladstone only sighed like she was tired of settling arguments between them.

Lestrade grinned.

Sherlock made a note that he was enjoying this way too much, and to find some form of payback in the near future.

So many opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tolle Rota' is Latin for 'Take the Wheel'. Is it bad to admit I have too much fun naming these stories?


End file.
